


Static

by InWater



Category: Ghost (Swedish Band)
Genre: Character Death, Gen, M/M, a haunting, not edited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-06
Updated: 2020-03-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 14:27:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23043466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InWater/pseuds/InWater
Summary: Sometimes if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the static collecting in the spaces between his fingers.
Relationships: Papa Emeritus II/Original Character(s), Papa Emeritus II/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

Father Cirice doesn’t talk to anyone for a while after it happens. 

That isn’t exactly true.

He talks, goes out, makes plans, but it’s for the most part completely hollow. Something to fill the time with at the end of a long day locked in the second floor basement storage room, with its flickering lighting and air conditioner that was currently on the fritz. 

It’s only 9 in the morning, but he already feels like he’d been awake for days. He doesn’t hear the footsteps echoing in the stairwell or on the concrete floor behind him. Doesn’t pay attention to the chill in the room, too absorbed in the painting he’s almost nose to nose with, taking down the occasional note or snapping and editing pictures with his phone. 

A cold hand brings itself to rest on the back of his neck, a little electrical crackle startling him out of his thoughts. He jumps, fumbles with his phone and finally clutches it safely to his chest, caught by the headphone wire. 

“Scared me. Hi.”

“_Hi._" Pause. "Do not turn around.”

A heavy sigh leaves his nose. It’s only been a month since their last visit. Of course he recognizes the voice - stern, quiet, slightly nasal... Though it’s much softer now. Almost gentle. Sad. 

“Don’t you have better things to do than sneak up on people like that?” 

“I am making my rounds. I may be... ah, _ retired _but I still have obligations, yes?” Another pause. The hand tightening, the voice softer still. “Do not turn around.”

There’s a shift, the light in the room feeling duller, the air heavier, everything a little bit softer. As if through a layer of gauze. The priest rests his hand on the hand that rests on him. In the back of his mind, he knows that there’s something weird going on here. Something wrong. Again. Wait. 

No. 

Never mind. 

He eases into the pressure on his neck - not holding him, not pushing, just kind of there - and sits up straight, wincing at the cracking of his spine. 

“Great! So since you’re not _ busy _-busy, mind having a look at this?” 

Careful not to turn his head, he holds the phone up and over his shoulder, the screen displaying a photo of the very same painting on the table. A second hand on his wrist guides him into an angle more suitable. The picture’s been brightened and sharpened and overexposed until the gold leaf text on the lower border was legible; the painting really should have been sent off for restoration but the priest was too excited to wait. And he’ll be damned if he ever asked for help of his own free will. 

(It’s not like he would know how to get it done, even if he wanted to. Those arrangements were usually left for upper management to make.)

The hand moves around slightly on the back of his neck, for seemingly no other reason than to make sure it hasn’t been forgotten. Father Cirice stops scanning the painting for a second. Waiting. 

He’s about to open his mouth to speak, only to be cut off by a quiet, thoughtful murmur. 

“Et in Arcadia ego.”

“Yep! What’s it _ mean _though?” The priest groans and rifles through the stack of books propping up the painting. “You know, I’m getting real sick of you guys and all your dead language shit.“

A laugh, a gentle squeeze, and then another hum. A finger tapping in thought at the slope of his shoulder.

“I too, in Arcadia.” The finger stops tapping. “Arcadia... Utopia. _ Paradise _?”

Father Cirice quickly gives up on looking through the stack of library books and takes to his phone, sighing when all of the results are for completely different paintings. 

“Ask yourself, who is the “I”?” It’s said as if it were something profound, or meant to lead him into some sort of revelation. Maybe it does. Only a little bit. He scrubs his hands over his eyes. 

“...I’m not getting it, Pops.”

“That is not true.” He repeats himself, stern, but never angry. “_ Who is the “I” _?” 

His shoulders hitch up to his ears. The hand moves from the back of his neck to his shoulder proper, squeezing it once. He knows who the “I” is. It sits there alone for a while before, slowly, his own hand moves to join it. It feels like static, or maybe like sticking a fork in an electrical outlet, the current starting in his hand and the top of his head, traveling down to meet somewhere in the middle. 

The conversation dies and they sit there in silence for a few moments until they’ve both had enough. 

“What will you do?”

Standing and stretching, he gets to cleaning up his workspace. Books to be returned to the cathedral’s library are gathered in his arms and the 32 tabs opened on his browser are closed. The laptop is finally shut down after a full two weeks of service. 

“I’m going to turn around. And then I’m going to go for a walk.”

The hand slips off his shoulder. The spot where it was resting feels too hot and too cold all at the same time, like a previously bandaged wound being exposed to the air. 

“I would join you, but... I have other matters to attend to. You understand.”

“Right. Well. I’ll be around. I’ll see you whenever.” No response. “...Miss you.” 

The lights seem to brighten, the roar and clank of the air conditioner coming back into focus. All tension leaves his neck and shoulder, the now aching muscle twitching beneath his skin in response to some unseen stimulus. Sometimes if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the static collecting in the spaces between his fingers, weighing heavy on his shoulder, the back of his neck, between his shoulder blades. He turns to the empty room, unlocks the door, and leaves. 

(On his way past the dormitories in the direction of the garden, after returning his borrowed books - along with the additional stack of “secretly borrowed” books from the Cardinal’s personal collection - he catches eyes with a ghoul. The short one from the kitchens, who always makes good coffee and stays out too late, most likely on his way to the dining hall. He nods in his direction. The ghoul waves. He looks tired. They keep walking.)


	2. Chapter 2

The ghoul comes to consciousness with the weight of a hand on his side. Where there would be heat radiating off of skin or the catch of leather, there’s nothing. Only pressure. Blearily, he looks up at the alarm clock on his bedside table. 8:20am. 

“Morning,” he mumbles, voice cracking with disuse. He buries his face deeper into the pillow, shuffling back to find some warmth to burrow himself into, but the pressure on his side stops him. 

“Don’t turn around.” 

He freezes. He hadn’t woken up to the dip in the mattress, or the opening of his bedroom door. Not even to the feeling of a body crawling over his to get itself to the empty space between him and the wall. It had been to the overwhelming sensations of static and of being smothered by stagnant air. 

“Fine, fine. I got it.” 

His thumb strokes gently over the skin of the ghoul’s lower back. The ghoul watches as slowly but surely, the minutes on his clock get closer and closer to his alarm.

“Where’ve you been, huh?” 

The thumb pauses. 

“Busy. Many, many people wanting to talk to their Papa. Seeking help. Guidance. *Comfort*. It is difficult times.” 

“No it isn’t.”

He snorts at the matter of fact tone in the ghoul’s voice. 

“You sound sure of yourself.”

The ghoul closes his eyes. Maybe if he tries hard enough, he can convince the both of them that he really is.

“That’s just how life is sometimes. There’s no use in getting so fucking upset over things.” 

An arm snakes its way across the ghoul’s middle, another going underneath his pillow. 

“Don’t turn around.”

The ghoul doesn’t move, but in his peripheral vision he can see his hand and wrist, facing up to the ceiling, hand just barely hanging over the edge of the mattress.

“You should stop sleeping with your glasses on the bed.” 

The non sequitur throws the ghoul’s train of thought a little. He’s about to question it when he’s cut off. 

“They fell again. They’re on the floor, by the nightstand. Try not to step on them.” 

“...Thanks?” A pause. “Hey. You can’t read my mind, can you? I was always a little worried about that, back when...” 

All he gets is a gentle laugh, not much more than a hum. The ghoul leans into the presence behind him and is met with resistance. Pinned uncomfortably, like something heavy were on top of the blankets behind him preventing him from moving too much. 

“No, no, nothing like that. If I could I wouldn’t need to ask you.”

The ghoul stops fidgeting. 

“Tell me something, ghoul.” He waits for acknowledgement before continuing. “Do you still run?” 

The air in the room seems to freeze. The ghoul’s entire body stiffens. 

“What?”

The arm around him tightens. Despite the stern tone, it’s a comforting gesture. 

“Why is it that you first came here, to my father’s church?” 

“Because, I had nowhere else--“

“That is not true. Do you still run?”

He lies there in silence for a good handful of minutes.

“Yes,” comes the whisper. Barely audible even in the complete stillness of the room. 

He seems pleased with that answer, if the gentle pressure on the back of his neck is anything to go by. It feels like static, but it doesn’t hurt. It’s like being shocked by a live current, albeit a weak one. Numbing, almost, just in that one area. 

“There is no shame in it. Sometimes, problems cannot be solved. Sometimes, it is good to run.” 

He lets the conversation die again. Hesitantly, the ghoul reaches a hand back, as if he were going to rest it on the neck of somebody behind him, the way he always used to do. It meets skin. The edge of a shirt collar. The ghoul hums and closes his eyes to try for a few extra minutes of sleep. 

“What will you do?”

The ghoul grumbles into his pillow. 

“I want to stay where I am. But I have work in like, ten minutes.” 

It earns him another squeeze, another bolt of static in his shoulder blade. The ghoul has no smartassed remark to make about the old man going weak at the level of affection and intimacy this time around. He sighs. 

“Missed you.”

The silence is broken by his alarm, loud enough to wake the dead and then some. He nearly jumps out of his skin, growling as he rolls onto the cold side of his mattress to stretch out and kick the blanket off. No use in laying around daydreaming, is there? But sometimes if he focuses hard enough, he can feel the static collecting in the spaces between his fingers, or at the high point of his hip when he’s lying in bed every night, but he isn’t sure how much of it is wishful thinking. He decides not to think too much about it. 

(On his way to the kitchens, he notices the priest - the “human” one with the horns, wandering aimlessly off the path winding around the abbey. God how could he not, with him all dressed up in a cheap clerical costume with those ridiculous looking things. He can never be sure of which direction the priest is looking in. He waves. The priest nods in his direction. They keep walking.)


End file.
